Seta Soujirou
by Kitsune no Alz
Summary: Chapter 6 uploaded About the later days of Soujirou, set after the Kyoto Arc. He becomes a rurouni and meets interesting people, then meets up again with the Kenshingumi.
1. Soujirou Thinks

  
  
Seta Soujirou ultimately decided that becoming a rurouni was the best decision he'd ever made. He got a lot of exercise traveling from place to place, had plenty of time to train and look forward to his next battle with Himura Kenshin, helped people here and there when they needed it.   
  
But now that he actually thought about it, he had never truly *thought* about becoming a rurouni. It had just seemed a natural step after his defeat at the hands of the former Hitokiri Battousai; after all, he had won, right? So that meant that he was right, because he was stronger and had the power to enforce his ideals. Look at what he had done to Soujirou, putting him in his place!   
  
On the other hand...well...Himura-san seemed to think that people should follow their own ideals, although he hadn't quite said so to Soujirou in so many words. Soujirou frowned and scratched his head, perplexed, pausing in the middle of the dusty road. In his entire life, he'd never really had to *think*; Shishio-san had given him orders, for the most part, and before that his family had made a slave of him. After being defeated, Soujirou still didn't think; he just meandered about, relentlessly heading north because...because...because north was a nice direction.  
  
Yumi had once told him that he was rather too thoughtless, though he knew the ways of the katana well enough. And now that he thought about it, it was true. Ironic that he should finally be *thinking* enough to realize that he was thoughtless.  
  
Swinging his pack over his shoulder, he stepped off the road and into the shade offered by the trees, sitting down and leaning back against the rough bark. A smile still slightly curved his lips, more out of habit than true happiness, although ever since his cathartic battle with Himura-san he'd found himself experiencing a lot of emotions that he hadn't felt in years. Idly he felt the sheath of the katana at his side, the black lacquer slightly warmed from the sun, smooth to the touch. Still, those emotions were muted, dimmed...though as he continued to feel them, they grew stronger, clearer, more defined.  
  
A reminiscent echo of a childhood long ago, when he was cared for...before he became Shishio-san's willing accomplice, before his corrupted family ruined his life. But it was the past, unchangeable, indelibly printed on his memory forever and always. He didn't think he could construct another barrier such as the one Himura had broken down; he hadn't realized until afterwards how much it had cost him to continuously deceive himself.  
  
Self-deceit rather than self-conceit. What a charming thought.  
  
Soujirou chuckled, the smile growing wider, and he grasped his sword, pulling out an inch of the blade and turning it in his hands, the sunlight glinting on the keen steel and nearly blinding him. It was a regular blade, neither made by a renowned swordsmith nor a sakabatou, like Himura's, but it served its purpose well enough. After all, he had never sworn not to kill--although, really, perhaps he ought to have taken a non-killing oath as well. Himura had taken it because he wanted to repent for the people he killed during the Bakumatsu...was this evidence of the fact that Soujirou had begun to think for himself?   
  
Or was it simply more of his thoughtlessness? Perhaps both. Himura could repent in his own way, and Soujirou in his. Following the ideals of Himura Kenshin without copying them. Justice brought to both sides not in the form of death, but of life: Kenshin to protect those who could not protect themselves, Soujirou the same; one by neutralizing the enemy without killing, the other without the non-lethal compunction.  
  
With a decisive *click*, he sheathed the blade, secured it to his hakama, stood and shouldered his pack, and continued on his way, staying in the cool shade of the trees rather than walking the sun-beaten road. An oath of repentance...to become a wanderer....  
  
Rurouni Soujirou. He tried the name in his mind, then on his tongue, finding it strange. "Rurouni Soujirou....desu ne," he said aloud, trying it again. "Boku wa Rurouni Soujirou." He shook his head with a little laugh, though whether it was for himself or his new-chosen name he was unsure.   
  
He jumped without a thought, avoiding the arrows as easily as if they were feathers drifting on the wind. Landing lightly on the branch overhead, he dropped his pack, drew his sword, and decapitated the first bandit with a flawless grace a dancer would have envied. The boy dropped to the ground and turned, facing the bandit's shocked companions with the ever-present smile still sitting on his lips. With a second cut, another bandit was down, crashing against a tree from the force of the blow, his eyes lifeless as the blood flowed from the slash through his ribs.  
  
"Hajimemashite," he said pleasantly, slashing the katana downwards to send the droplets of blood flying from the blade, then sheathing it neatly and offering the bandits a slight bow. "Gomen nasai, our first meeting must be so rude, but you are bandits and I am a rurouni." He adjusted the sword slightly, grasping the sheath in his left hand, his right hovering over the hilt. "Dakara, shine kudasai!"  
  
Soujirou flew at the remaining bandits before they had a chance to organize themselves. As he dealt with them as flowingly and gracefully as the first two, he smiled a bit more.  
  
There was such a thing as too much thinking, after all.  



	2. Rurouni wa Rurouni desu ne

  
  
Soujirou sat down in the shade of the roadside shrine and sighed, taking the katana from his belt and leaning it against the bench within close reach. He ran a hand through his hair, watching the dust dance free from it and drift across the setting sun like so many tiny fireflies, each haloed in glowing ruddy light. The breeze stilled itself, as though halted by some invisible wall, leaving the air to thicken and become muggy, almost difficult to breathe in.  
  
"Natsu," he murmured, his soft voice lost in the vociferous cries of the insects in the grass, creating a din that should have been impossible for their tiny size. "Summer already." The boy leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and watching the sun vanish behind the mountains, outlining in red and gold fire before true dusk settled in. Really, he wasn't that tired, and he had gotten a late start; he would travel more after he had rested a bit, and after the evening cool settled in.  
  
Ignoring his resolve to move on after the night had descended, Soujirou lingered in the shelter of the shrine, which was so old and run-down that it was impossible to tell what kind of a shrine it might have been; little was left but the low altar (that he had mistaken for a bench) and the roof overhead. Decaying away though it might have been, there was a peaceful, resting quality to it that made the boy reluctant to leave. It was the kind of calm peace that he felt only immediately after an exhilarating fight or in the few moments that he remained awake before sleep claimed him.  
  
At long last, the rurouni moved on, albeit somewhat regretfully, traveling under a blanket of darkness and millions of stars, their dim light nevertheless sufficient for him to see by. As he trod the dirt road that had seen hundreds of weary travelers by both day and night, Soujirou let his mind wander, keeping only a scant eye on the road and a half-ear open for any alarming sounds.   
  
Peace was not something that he sought, rather something that he welcomed when it came but otherwise did not deliberately seek. After all, the life of a rurouni was to wander, to assist those in need and protect those who could not protect themselves. To be a rurouni was not to seek peace, but to seek conflict. How else could one help those who so desperately needed rescue? For a rurouni to seek peace was for a rurouni to cease being a rurouni.   
  
Through the early hours of the night, this became something of a mantra repeated endlessly in his mind, a chant that danced its way up through his throat only to be foiled by his ever-smiling (but currently closed) mouth. For a rurouni to seek peace was for a rurouni to cease being a rurouni. For a rurouni to seek peace was for a rurouni to cease being a rurouni. For a rurouni to seek peace was for a rurouni to cease being a rurouni.  
  
When he finally left the road and chose a lofty tree branch as his bed for the night, he was sick to death of hearing it.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
"...and so thank you very much," Soujirou was saying, taking the package of anpan from the man with a slight bow. "Hontoo ni ii desu ne?"  
  
The man waved off his thanks with a fearful glance for the sword he bore at his side. The moment Soujirou had entered the restaurant, a heavy fog of silence had descended on the cheerful atmosphere with almost unnatural force--and from the deliberate avoidance of looks at him (as well as the pointed ones at his katana) he well knew what the cause of that silence was.   
  
Still, that didn't stop him from buying lunch. It was nice to be able to sit down at a table and eat for once. And he hadn't had anything sweet in such a long time that he had to restrain himself from tearing the paper and neatly tied string, flinging open the box, and devouring all four of the sweet-filled pastries on the spot. But it was also clear to him how much of a disturbance he was causing to the customers and the workers themselves, so he graciously decided to vacate his place before somebody fetched the police to arrest him for carrying a sword.  
  
He allowed himself a slight snort of contempt as he stood and slipped his feet into their zori, then left the restaurant, ignoring the ostentatious sighs of relief behind him. Kesatsu. Saitou-san was the only one who even properly knew how to use a katana, and so far all of his experiences with the police only led him to believe that rurouni were *really* needed in this police-filled world--if only to keep the police from completely botching their duty. They had absolutely no tact at all, no skill, and were totally stupid. Baka desu ne.  
  
Not that Soujirou had much tact. Just smile at the evildoer and cut him down. What was it that Saitou-san always said? Ah yes. "Aku Soku Zan." "Evil Swiftly Slain." That was...rather what Soujirou was doing, sometimes to the distress of the same police that should have been doing that in the first place. Soujirou did their jobs for them and they got so upset...you'd think that they'd be grateful, not trying to hunt him down as though he were a criminal himself!  
  
Soujirou frowned, then glanced down and realized that he was holding the box of confectionery in his hands, the paper and string long since discarded. His hands were acting on their own, without thought. Those hands that so easily slew those of evil were currently lifting the wooden lid of the small box, letting a sweet waft of scent rise up, teasing his nose. Those hands had no thought, were only obeying the mind--though whether that was with the mind's knowledge or not was a different story.  
  
With a laugh, Soujirou put all such thoughts out of his mind and focused directly on the anpan, biting into the sweet bread and tasting the custard therein, sweet and creamy, wonderfully light and dissolving on the tongue. As he ate, he craned his neck up, as though this would enable him to see further down the road.   
  
South, he was now traveling. And if he kept on traveling south...he would come to Kyoto. From south to north, then north to south. He refused to think about anything deeper at the moment, fully enjoying his sweet.   
  
If he kept going south he might find Himura Kenshin.  
  
Soujirou put that thought firmly out of his mind and bit into his second anpan.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
Note: Um, I don't know if they had anpan back then, but doesn't it seem like the kind of sweet Sou-chan would like? ^_^ And I know this is going slowly, but it should pick up the pace pretty soon. Gomen!  
  
  



	3. One of Those Bad Days

  
  
Soujirou cruised the last few miles to Kyoto on No-Thought Mode, purposefully keeping his mind as blank as possible for a number of reasons.  
  
1) He had not been sleeping very well at night due to a growing sense of anxiety  
  
2) and he barely recognized the gnawing emotion for what it was, so unused to feeling it was he,  
  
3) and also there seemed to be an awful lot of stupid chirping bugs around that were driving him absolutely insane.  
  
Before, when he'd been an unthinking puppet who happily danced to whatever song Shishio-sama ordered, he'd never really, truly, actually NOTICED how IRRITATING insects' chirping could be...it was amazing, really, how a few torn-down immense emotional barriers could result in realizing...how much little things affect...affect...affect bigger things. Like your sleep, for instance.  
  
Waking with the sun was something he did everyday, regardless of how much sleep he'd actually had, but this morning seemed worse than any other he'd ever had in his life: though it was rapidly approaching summer the air was a miasma of damp heat reminiscent of the one swamp he'd passed through, little black nameless flies were constantly biting his already tenderly-sunburned skin and raising itchy red welts, he'd gotten maybe about three hours of sleep...the list went on and on.  
  
He was sweating like a foundering horse only an hour after he'd woken, the damp warmth nigh to driving him to slicing some trees into skewers just for something to take his frustration out on...and he would have done that too, had done it before, except never in such humid weather; it would only make him feel worse.   
  
Maybe, he thought doubtfully, this was a sign of some kind. An omen that he shouldn't return to Kyoto. All of this was to discourage him from going there, from making a grave mistake, something was trying to save his life...  
  
And maybe Himura Kenshin would return to being a hitokiri, Shishio-sama would rise from the dead, and Aoshi Shinomori crack a smile. One was as likely as the other since Soujirou decided right at that moment that he did not believe in any such thing as foreordained destiny and ill-omens.  
  
Wiping the sweat from his brown on his sleeve, Soujirou grimaced and seated himself on the edge of the road, panting slightly, inclining his head to one side as a muffled noise gradually resolved itself into the dull clopping of a horse's hooves. He stood and moved entirely off the road as it was narrow and he had no wish to add being trampled by a horse's hooves to his list of bad things for the day. It was rather muddy, though he stood carefully so as to keep the mud from decorating his somewhat worn clothing.  
  
The earlier analogy to a foundering horse was definitely correct, Soujirou decided, as he watched the poor beast trudge by, white lather liberally spread across its flank. The rider was in no better shape, swathed as he was in a heavy cloak with the hood drawn up. Why would somebody wear such a garment in such hellish weather?  
  
The rider turned suddenly as the horse clopped by, staring at Soujirou.  
  
"Anata!" the rider gasped, flinching back slightly; the hood fell back and revealed a girl's face, covered in a sheen of sweat, large blue eyes and wings of dark hair. Her hands dropped the reins and came up again bearing three kunai each, their blades glinting brightly even in the sunlight diffused by the fog.  
  
"Ah," said Soujirou, blinking disarmingly, trying to recall the young girl's name as she leapt from the horse and sent it cantering away with a slap to its rump, glaring at Soujirou all the while with eyes that could have been chips of ice. "Misao-san? Is that you?"  
  
Six streaks of steel were his answer; he avoided them easily, leaning away from the wicked blades that would have skewered him like meat on a stick. He brought up his sword and deflected the next round of knives with the same ease. Misao was evidently outraged that he should protect himself with such seeming carelessness, as the kunai flung at him grew in number until they littered the ground around him like fallen leaves on the ground during fall, until the tree immediately behind him was so liberally covered that barely a scrap of bark could be seen for all the blades buried into its wood.  
  
I wonder where she keeps all of those knives, Soujirou mused, batting another several rounds away.  
  
"Misao-san, onegai, stop," Soujirou called out, watching the vague form in the mist fairly dancing around, the rain of missiles never ceasing. "I don't want to fight you."  
  
"HAH! You lackey of Shishio! I thought Himura put you down a long time ago! What are you doing heading in the direction of Kyoto? I'll show you never to mess with the Oniwabanshu again!" A solid bar of kunai were flying straight at his head; he bowed his head and felt the rush of air signaling their passage stir his hair. "Take THIS and THIS! THIS is for Aoshi-sama! And THIS is for Jii-ya!"  
  
Soujirou sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose with a finger, ever-present smile widening at the girl's impetuous, imperious attitude; it was possible that she could see him through the mist, because as soon as his smile grew the array of kunai flung at him doubled. He really didn't want to spend the rest of his day standing here on the muddy shoulder of the road trying to determine when Misao would run out of knives, however, so he jumped and dodged the steadily flung glinting blades and simply swept his (sheathed) sword down at about ankle-level, sending a surprised Misao flying back to crash against the damp earth.  
  
He took a step back, grounding the katana and resting his weight on it, and offered the furious girl a friendly smile. "Misao-san, I really do not want to fight you. Yes, I am traveling to Kyoto, but I am going there simply because I wish to...go back and see how things are. I swear to you that I am in no way going to try to rouse trouble; besides, I am a rurouni myself, now. I protect people, not harass them."  
  
Unspoken but implied was the suggestion that Misao was doing a perfectly capable imitation of the latter. This was not missed by the girl, who was still trying to catch her breath.  
  
Soujirou offered Misao his hand as she started to get up, and gave a mental sigh of relief; one of the hardest things about returning to Kyoto would be to deal with the people there that he had affected, directly and indirectly. And he'd already dealt with one of them; he took courage in the fact that the only thing that had happened was to have several hundred kunai thrown at him.  
  
Maybe he wasn't having such a bad day after all, he thought, as he watched to see what Misao would do.  
  
  
  
  
Note: Kunai are the throwing knives that Misao uses (if you haven't figured that out already ^_^). And no, Misao and Soujirou are NOT going to become a couple; it simply doesn't work into the story, I will say that I am neither against nor for it, and so shall we leave it at that?  



	4. TobiKunai Away!

Note: Doumo arigatou, nice people who left reviews! ^_^ I'm sorry this has taken so long, but I write slowly sometimes and besides that, my internet connection has been mean to me. :( Thanks for reading, though! ^_^ ^_^  
  
  
"I don't believe you!" Misao spat, obstinately refusing Soujirou's proffered hand and leaping to her feet a good five paces away. "Listen, you smiley-faced psycho boy, I'm not letting you get anywhere near Kyoto!"  
  
Soujirou sighed and continued to lean on his sword, half an ear attuned to the girl's ranting, his mind wandering away. He truly hoped that he wouldn't have to harm her in order to pass...or humiliate her either; to Makimachi Misao, they were one and the same. Such a prideful ninja, he mused, staring at her as she postured and gestured and dramatically posed. Swordsmen, ninja, martial artists...the Oniwabanshu, the Juppongatana--they were groups of fighters, and they all had pride, though how they expressed it varied. A fighter's pride carried him through battle: look at Aoshi and Saitou and Shishio-san!  
  
Of course, they had all been defeated by Himura in the end. All except Saitou, as far as Soujirou knew. Himura-san had pride as well, but he used it to protect, to keep promises to his loved ones. He had fought Aoshi to stop him from harming Misao and kept his pledge to the girl to bring her commander back; similarly, he had fought Shishio to protect all of Japan, and kept his oath to his own woman, Kaoru, to come back safely and leave Kyoto with her and his other friends. And he had fought Saitou because of the ages-old unspoken pledge of warrior-to-warrior fighting, to finish the battle between them, testing the true extent of their abilities against each other.  
  
Protective pride? Prideful protection? It was an interesting thought. Soujirou considered himself briefly, wondering at his own pride; at first he had thought it nonexistent, but now that he put himself in the light and angle that he viewed Himura in, perhaps he did. He had been nicknamed "Tenken" for a good reason, and it had been a blow to him when he lost to Himura. Granted, it was also because it proved--or seemed to prove--that he was in the right and Soujirou had been in the wrong, had torn down his carefully bricked and mortared emotional barriers, but--  
  
"OI! YOU AREN'T LISTENING TO ME, ARE YOU?"  
  
"Arara?" Soujirou started, glancing up with an embarrassed smile to see Misao leaning face-to-face with him a bare half-inch away, veins bulging, eyes glowering, fuming impotently. "Ah, Misao-san! Gomen nasai...I was not." He ran a hand through his hair and let out a small, apologetic laugh.  
  
Which, as it turned out, was exactly the wrong thing to do.  
  
"Nobody laughs at the great Makimachi Misao!" the girl thundered, outrage making her eyes glow a particularly fierce, unsettling white-blue. Her hands snapped out, filled with sixteen kunai each, their blades glittering in a way that meant fatal business.   
  
Soujirou was not particularly concerned--she had been throwing knives at him for quite a while and hadn't so much as clipped a hair from his head--but he was rather worried that night was approaching and he really didn't want to spend it standing on the muddy shoulder of the road dodging knives thrown at him by a raging young ninja girl.  
  
So at that point, the rurouni took the first reasonable course of action that presented itself.  
  
He flowed beneath the next wave of tobi-kunai and easily swept Misao's feet from underneath her again--but this time he caught her shoulder as she fell and slammed her into the ground with all the necessary force to send her unconscious, catching a glimpse of her brief expression of shocked incredulity. Her head lolled on her neck and her shoulder would bear a nasty bruise, but it wasn't broken and all of her vital signs were strong; she would not die, although she might wish she had when she woke up due to the monstrous headache she would have.  
  
He hoped he hadn't given her a concussion.  
  
That would really be very bad since he only wanted her down long enough for him to get the rest of the way to Kyoto. And he hated to think of the Oniwabanshu murderously following him into infinity just because he'd given her one unintentionally. They were persistent, with spirit and pride--especially Aoshi. And there was that word again...prideful protection, he decided with a grin.  
  
"Gomen nasai, Misao-san," he said, a touch regretfully, stooping to retrieve her cloak from the ground. "Perhaps when we meet again in Kyoto, you won't be so very opposed to my presence. Ne?" He held the cloak thoughtfully for a moment--it was very humid, after all, and it might do more harm than good--but covered her anyway. It would be dark soon, and with the dusk came the cold and probably a myriad of those annoying chirping insects as well as biting bugs. He carried her to a less muddy shoulder of the road and set her gently down against a tree.  
  
After regarding the unconscious girl for a moment more, he gathered up the thrown kunai from the trees and ground as well (he counted six hundred of the slender blades before he lost track, marveling at the number) and neatly bundled them up beside her. Then he turned and loped off down the road at an easy pace that nonetheless sent the scenery around him blurring with speed.  
  
He really, really didn't want to be there when she woke up. 


	5. Skulking Through the Streets of Kyoto

Note: Gomen nasai...this chapter took long, because I have school and...no excuses, eh? Sorry. But thank you for your reviews, and in response to one of them, yes, I meant "foundering horse" in chapter 4, it means something to the extent of becoming sick from overeating, or being made to run to fast...something like that. ^_^  
  
  
  
Ah...how long ago had he had walked the streets of Kyoto? To mingle amongst the people, those without extraordinary fighting ability? To browse the vendors and shops? To buy dango or takoyaki or anpan or yakitori from a cart? To smile at children passing by and nod respectfully to elders?  
  
To run from the kesatsu for bearing a katana?  
  
As for the last, only a few days, Soujirou conceded grudgingly, easily sidestepping into a convenient alley and avoiding the policeman, who continued to chase through the crowd of people for the boy bearing a sword, forbidden in the Meiji Era. The number of police in Kyoto had definitely increased, but that wasn't a surprise given the condition of the city whence he had left.   
  
He stepped back another pace into the concealing shadows of the parallel buildings as the policeman stormed back, scowling at the loss of his prey, sabre hilt clutched in hand. It would have been no difficulty at all to kill or even just defeat the man, weak and poorly skilled as he was, but it would have led to more trouble than the temporary relief was worth. Was this how Himura felt? Like a lone wildcat hunted by ineffectual but persistent jackals, and he unable to strike them down because it would bring the whole pack down upon him?  
  
Or maybe they were insects instead, he thought irritably, slapping at a buzzing bug near his ear and succeeding only in deafening himself, the insect taunting him as it circled around and around his head, lingering near his ears. If they weren't chirping, they were biting, and if they weren't biting, they were buzzing. Or all three.   
  
It wasn't fair. He was Soujirou no Tenken, champion of godlike speed, unmatched by nearly nobody in the world but the Hitokiri Battousai, and yet he still couldn't rid himself of a buzzing insect. So much for that godlike speed.  
  
With an irritated sigh, he pushed our of the alley and into the everyday throng of people, taking care to weave a convoluted enough path that nobody got a very good look at what was slipped through his obi and borne at his side. It proved easier than he expected to evade the police simply by mingling with the everyday commoners, and as quickly as they were moving they paid him little notice--and the few who did carefully avoided looking at him again as they passed by with extra hurry to their step.  
  
Kesatsu...kesatsu...Soujirou had the feeling that he was forgetting something. Forgetting something important, that was one of the reasons he had decided to revisit Kyoto, monolith of his past. Something to do with the police--  
  
He paused in mid-step and laughed at himself, smacking his head with a hand. Saitou-san, of course!  
  
Several people bumped into him and admonished him sternly for stopping so abruptly. And as abruptly as he had stopped walking, they stopped talking once they noticed his sword, and then passed on without another word, faces stricken white. Evidently much of what had happened during his last time in Kyoto was engraved in the memories of the people, along with that etching of fear.  
  
With his perpetual smile now tinged with a hint of sadness, Soujirou began walking again. One hand rested on the hilt of his sword, feeling the smooth metal and lacquer and bindings. Try though he might to be kind and considerate, to help people, he had the feeling that they would still fear him simply because of the katana he used to defend them.  
  
People, Soujirou concluded, were stupid.  
  
Of course, he had been stupid too.  
  
A tragic personal flaw that everyone bore. At least that was one way he was like a regular person.  
  
Soujirou turned off the road and examined the building before him, thoughtfully folding his arms as he looked up at the police headquarters of Kyoto. If Saitou-san were anywhere in Kyoto, he'd probably be here--or be returning here, some time. Or perhaps Chou might be present.  
  
He was here, in Kyoto, in front of the police headquarters, to confront his past and put to rest ghosts of memory that haunted him; he didn't fear them, but they afforded him little rest and no peace of mind. Not that he'd ever had real peace of mind, but it might be nice to just exist without constant memories new and old crowding his head. These yure were as transparent as rice paper, he could think right through them and they flapped away in the slightest breeze of thought, but the selfsame breeze always brought them fluttering back full-circle.  
  
He had learned, through trial and error, that more disturbing memories sometimes shoved the lesser ones ("lesser" being a relative term) out of the way.  
  
Perhaps if he saw Saitou-san, Miburo no Ookami, with that sneer on his lips and sarcastic words on his tongue and cigarette dangling from his white-gloved fingertips, the memory of that sardonic face would chase everything else away.  
  
Surely the ex-Shinsengumi captain was scary enough to scare his ghosts away.  
  
But even if he did, it was only a temporary thing. The memories would be back. Which is why he needed to find out from either Saitou-san or Chou-san where Himura Kenshin lived, so he could drop by and pay him a visit, and get things cleared up and laid down permanently. Solid comforting memories engraved in stone, like memorial tablets or gravestones...but without ghosts haunting them.  
  
The self-proclaimed rurouni squared his shoulders and marched up to the doors, pushing them open and moving into the cool dark interior of the building.  
  
  
  
  
notes:  
  
obi = belt, not sure if that's exactly what it's called on hakama (anybody know...?)  
  
yure = ghost 


	6. Conversation with Saitou and More Thinki...

Sometimes it's difficult to know whether you're coming or going.  
  
Soujirou stared at his hand, still frozen on the Western-style wooden door, and wondered at this sudden thought, staring into the darkness. Was he *coming* back to Kyoto, to visit Saitou-san and get directions to where Himura-san lived? Or was he *going* from Kyoto, to get directions where Himura-san lived?  
  
He frowned. No wait.that wasn't quite it.the phrasing was off.  
  
Was he *coming* to Kyoto.no, was he *going* to Kyoto.coming, going, coming, going.  
  
He knew what he meant, he just couldn't even think it to himself.  
  
"Ahou. Move."  
  
Soujirou stepped aside, smile unconsciously brightening, to make room for the Wolf of Miburo himself. "Yada na, Saitou-san, gomen nasai." The boy laughed and ran a hand through his hair, as the tall "policeman" brushed past him to stand in the sun. "I just got stuck thinking in the doorway. It's been happening a lot lately. I think."  
  
Saitou took a drag on his cigarette, the tip a miniature sunset, and lifted a white-gloved hand in laconic salute.  
  
"Your problem, boy, is that you're *not* thinking." He blew a plume of smoke out. He raised a sardonic brow. "You've been often stuck thinking in doorways?"  
  
"Iie, Saitou-san. Only just now, I th--only just now."  
  
A twist of the wrist and ash flicked away, speckling the ground gray. He glanced at Soujirou, and there was a slight, though unmistakable, narrowing of his wolf-gold eyes.  
  
Soujirou wondered at that. He hadn't thought it possible for Saitou-san's eyes to get any narrower without closing completely--they were already slits in his face, through which he glared disdainfully at the world--but apparently he had been mistaken.  
  
"Are you here for a reason?"  
  
"Hai, Saitou-san. Would you be so kind as to direct me to Himura-san's residence?"  
  
The eyes impossibly narrowed further. "Why?"  
  
Soujirou moved to stand next to Saitou, raising his hand to shield his eyes from the sun and watching the people bustle by in the street, chattering to each other, carrying packages wrapped in cloth or thick crackling paper, working women with their hair daintily covered in white kerchiefs and men with straw hats' round brims covering their eyes. So many people, and how many of them had suffered in the Juupongatana's attacks?  
  
"I want to see him again, Saitou-san. I want to speak with him, talk to him about his ideals. There's so much that I don't understand--" a smirk crossed Saitou's thin lips at this, he definitely agreed with Soujirou about that, "--and that I need to ask him. I've learned a little, but I want to know more."  
  
"Very admirable," said Saitou, deadpan. He glanced at his cigarette and then dropped it to the ground, grinding out its ruddy glow with his heel. "Is that all you've come here for?"  
  
Is that all you've come here for?  
  
Such a simple question surely required a simple definitive answer, yet Soujirou could not bring himself to simply say either yes or no. Yes, he had come for directions, for a specific location, a destination. No, he hadn't come here for that alone. To put his mind at peace and see Kyoto, the very place where his life had so dramatically changed.  
  
Yet here he was, and he felt curiously unfulfilled, standing unnoticed beside Saitou and watching the people pass by. There was no sign of that fateful period during which Shishio-san had implemented the beginnings of his Kuni-tori, of the destruction that had taken place when Kamatari-san and the others had attacked; really, an amazing amount of repair had been accomplished after Soujirou had left. The people of Kyoto did not recognize him; he was not one of those who had actively terrorized them. So they did not fear him and they did not hate him.  
  
He could scarcely believe it, but he identified what he was feeling as.disappointment? Surely not! How could anyone be disappointed that nobody hated him on sight? How could anyone feel that vague plummeting of the stomach that mothers did not pull their children away and men stand fearfully but protectively in front of them at his passing?  
  
Perhaps it was that he was unrecognized. After all this, the epoch that marked the second turning point in his life (the first being Shishio's taking him under his wing), he was unrecognized. But perhaps, he admitted, that was also a good thing, not matter how disappointing.  
  
Perhaps.  
  
He couldn't help wondering how it was that Himura-san felt about people whispering in fright the name of Battousai and cowering at the sight of that cross-shaped scar.  
  
"You're thinking now," Saitou observed, voice breaking in upon Soujirou's internal monologue, "but you haven't answered my question."  
  
Soujirou looked at him. Nobody recognized him here. There were no ghosts here to confront but those of his own conjuring--and anyway, it would have been counterproductive to his current rurouni's goal to help people to terrify them with his passage. Being unrecognized was, therefore, a good thing.  
  
There was little here for him in Kyoto. Perhaps he might, after this visit with Saitou, visit the Aoi-ya and make amends.if he could. He wasn't certain. After all, there was that incident with Misao-san to consider. Her reaction to his presence had not been reassuring. It could count as penitence of a sort, though. After all, wasn't that what he had become a rurouni for, to atone for the past as well as to find his own truth?  
  
Yes.  
  
There was his answer.  
  
Soujirou smiled. "Hai, Saitou-san. That's all I've come here for." 


End file.
